


On Second Thought

by TogetherAgain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Brit-Picked, Footnotes, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Sorry Not Sorry, The Bookshop Ships It, They don't know how to NOT pine, but with American spellings, by which I mean everything IN the bookshop ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TogetherAgain/pseuds/TogetherAgain
Summary: It's never too late for a lockdown fic, right?_______________________________________________________“So look, I… my, uh—my—alcohol supply is, mm… lower than I’d like it to be. And if you’re—missing ingredients, for any of your cakes, I mean… Well there’s no reasonbothof us should have to go to the shops, yeah? I mean you’d have towalkthere, anyway, and I at least have the car. So.Iwas thinking. If—y’know, if there’s anything that you’re out of—or, running low on, ormightrun low on, just… tell me what it is, and I can stop by and—drop it off at the shop for you.” And then he very quietly mumbled something thatmayhave sounded alittlelike, “And not leave.”Oh!“What was that last bit, dear?”“Nothing!” Crowley said quickly. “No, just, if—I could drop off whatever you need, and leave right away. Stay two meters apart the whole time. Nothing wrong with that, yeah? And then there’s one less person—out and about, than there would’ve been. So if you think about it, it's thesocially responsiblething to do, innit?”Crowleyalwaysfound a way to circle in closer.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 119





	On Second Thought

**On Second Thought**

Aziraphale forlornly stared off at not very much at all.

 _Well, what did you expect?_ he chided himself.

They had been dancing this dance for six thousand years. Aziraphale would send a thousand tiny signals and thinly disguised invitations, beckon Crowley to come closer and closer, and then firmly push him away. Crowley would approach and approach and approach and _retreat_ post-haste, constantly circling the angel, never really staying quite as far away as he let on. Round and round they went, never quite connecting, never completely showing their hands, never crossing that line of no return, never leaving behind the safety net of plausible deniability.

For six thousand years, it had been _necessary_. Essential. Life-or-death, as few things ever were for them. Shortly after their very first conversation, Aziraphale had come to terms with the basic fact that if anyone in Heaven found out he’d had a polite conversation with a demon, they would destroy the demon—and Aziraphale likely wouldn’t fare terribly well, either. With that as a baseline, there was hardly much incentive to admit to feeling… anything. Else. At all.

And he knew Crowley had similar fears—not nearly _enough_ fear for his _own_ well-being, sometimes, but he’d been much more aware of his own… feelings. And he had also been aware of what it could cost them if they were ever caught.

So, they circled. They found their own ways to drop hints to each other. They talked around the things they wanted to say. They snuck longing glances and affectionate gazes at each other, but they never dared anything more than a brief “accidental” touch. They denied everything. _Aziraphale_ denied everything. They hurt each other— _Aziraphale hurt Crowley_ —because it was the only way to protect each other.

They hadn’t really expected themselves to drop all those habits overnight. Just because they were free of their respective Head Offices didn’t mean the thoroughly ingrained muscle memory had lost its grip. Again and again in the months since the averted Apocalypse, they had fallen back into the old familiar steps of their careful dance, because it was just so _ingrained_. And in person, it wasn’t so bad. In person, whenever they demurred or pushed away or denied, they could see each other wincing and rolling their eyes at themselves; they could share a nudge of the elbow and a reassuring smile that said, without saying, because that was how they said anything important, _it’s alright, we’re trying, we’ll get there._ It would take time for them to learn new patterns, a new dance, new _everything_ —and that was fine, really. They had no shortage of time. In his own mind, Aziraphale had estimated that it would likely take them at least a decade to stop pushing each other away, and twice that or more before they managed to admit their feelings. All things considered, that seemed like a reasonable time scale. Maybe even a bit optimistic.

It was just…

It was just that he hadn’t anticipated _this_.

 _This_ , where he had no idea when he would see Crowley again, except that it would be at least July, apparently, and here it was only the first of May.

He felt lonely.

There had been a time—a very brief time, in the early 1960s—when Crowley had been comfortable with having long telephone conversations. They would call each other and establish a time and place to meet to discuss something for the Arrangement, and then proceed to chatter on about nothing for an hour or two, feeling perfectly safe because after all, no one could _see_ that they were talking to _each other_. Perhaps that was what Aziraphale had been hoping for when he’d called Crowley just now.

But those long phone calls had stopped abruptly one day when Crowley apologized and said he’d ‘got sloppy,’ that he’d somehow forgotten all his knowledge from the counterintelligence work he’d done in the Second World War, and that if humans could ‘tap’ telephones then there were bound to be a few angels or demons who could figure it out, too. Since then, Crowley had diligently kept their calls to the absolute minimum length possible, rarely even reaching a full minute. Aziraphale suspected the new paranoia had more to do with all those _spy_ films Crowley was so keen on, but he was hardly going to complain about Crowley being cautious.

This was probably the longest they had talked on the telephone since 1964. Three minutes? Four, perhaps? Definite progress, really. Aziraphale should have been grateful for that much. This was just one more habit for them to unlearn.

Oh, he hadn’t _really_ expected them to spend _hours_ chatting away just now. He hadn’t even really _hoped_ for it. What he _had_ hoped was that Crowley would be just a smidgen more… rebellious. He was a _demon_ , after all! He had _every_ excuse possible to break the rules. Or at the very least, to _bend_ the rules. Aziraphale had heard stories of people somewhere—he couldn’t recall where—managing to ‘be there’ for each other from two meters away or more. He had to admit that he liked the idea of something like that, of looking out his window to see Crowley honking and waving from his Bentley, or standing on the pavement holding up a sign that said—oh, well what _would_ it say, anyway? They were hardly ready to confess… anything. Certainly a sign like that wouldn’t state anything directly. Perhaps something _indirect_ , like _To the world_ or _You’re just enough of a bastard_ or… or even just, _Miss you_. The act of standing on the pavement with a sign said far more than any sign would, and—and that was exactly why it wouldn’t happen, really. Crowley _did_ show his feelings through actions, he always had, but he never did anything so… overt, so public.

No, something like _that_ was a silly thing to hope for. But Crowley was clever, and surely Crowley could think of _some_ way they could visit. Or just break the rules, what with being a demon and all. It was always _Crowley_ who kept them together, really. It was _Crowley’s_ role in their dance to keep circling back closer, to see past the obligatory protests and tempt and nudge _just_ enough, and instead—

 _Instead_ , Aziraphale had kept to his _own_ steps a little too closely. He had pushed back, out of _reflex_ , really, and he hadn’t meant to push _that_ hard, but—what choice did Crowley have except to retreat? And so, here they were. Or here _he_ was. Alone.

_Goodnight, angel._

It was all Aziraphale’s fault.

It was _irritating_ , how some things just refused to budge, while others changed so easily. Prior to Armageddon, Aziraphale had never been—oh, alright, he _had_ always had a fair amount of nerves whenever he’d been about to contact Crowley by _any_ means, but it had always been about whether or not they would get _caught_. It wasn’t like that at all now. Now, when he’d made up his mind to call Crowley, he had been nervous about _talking to Crowley_. And also excited. Giddy, even. Like he was a ridiculous schoolboy, all caught up and head-over-heels in his first brush with anything even _resembling_ romance, when he was in fact an experienced, retired Principality who merely happened to want to check in on his friend.

…Although, for all his experience with _Earth_ and _living_ and _humans_ and so on, he had never personally bothered to dally in _romance_ at all. Oh, he’d been a staunch supporter of certain pairings over the years, and he’d occasionally played matchmaker for the humans—successfully, even, sometimes! But he had never sought out such a relationship for _himself_. There was no use bothering with humans—they died so quickly—and no one in Heaven had ever really appealed to him in that way. For that matter, _no one_ had appealed to him in that way, not any humans or angels or any of the demons he’d ever come across, except…

Well.

Obviously.

Perhaps a bit of schoolboy foolishness was to be expected, really.

Oh, dear.

He really needed more cake. Or alcohol, or—something. He definitely needed something.

More burglars, maybe.

Or—

“Right!” he said brightly, standing up and straightening his waistcoat. “That’s enough of that.” He surveyed his surroundings, determined to get his mind off the whole thing. “Perhaps another slice of cake. _Or_ , I could bake a _new_ one…”

Either way, there were certainly plenty to choose from. Many of his cookbooks were still open to pages that had looked appetizing—had he made these whole wheat girdle cakes yet…? He was beginning to lose track. Well, no reason not to consider _all_ of the options.

He started sorting through the open cookbooks—oh, but this one wasn’t a cookbook at all! Oh, yes, he remembered now. He had been reading this book—quite enjoying it, really—but he’d had to set it aside for a bit because… well, he hated to be snobbish1, but even _knowing_ that it was Crowley’s handiwork, he only had so much patience for American spellings. Anything published before spelling had been standardized had carte blanche, of course, but after that, well… _really_.2

Actually, now that he was looking… only about half of the books he currently had open were cookbooks. He’d set this one aside because the characters were just so _mean_ to each other; he’d walked away from that one because the author seemed determined to kill off every named character in the book; here was one he’d accidentally abandoned because the kettle had boiled… ooh, and here was the book he’d been reading by that Pratchett fellow, and it was _quite_ good, but he’d been interrupted by the burglary.

Perhaps he hadn’t been quite as productive as he’d thought in ‘catching up’ with his reading.

The phone rang, and he sighed as he looked at it. He had _received_ a few telephone calls lately, although really, it had mostly been Anathema, breaking her own tedium with what she referred to as ‘prank calls.’ Last time, she had asked if his refrigerator was running, and he had apparently ‘ruined’ it by saying he did not have one. They had both laughed anyway, and he had assured her that his icebox was in perfect working order3. She usually waited longer before she phoned again, though, so this was likely the _other_ sort of prank he’d been getting; people asking after his ‘online sales.’ Obviously a prank.

No one really expected anything to be open now, but… well, it wouldn’t hurt to keep up a professional appearance. A little.

He cleared his throat and lifted the receiver. “A.Z. Fe—”

“D’you still need cherries?”

His breath caught, and his heart did an entirely unnecessary skip. “Crowley?”

He could practically hear the eye-roll. “No, it’s—Winston Churchill. ‘F course it’s me!” came the abundantly sarcastic reply. “Y’said you had to miracle the cherries.”

“Oh—oh, for my kirschtorte! Yes, I did.” Aziraphale felt so much _lighter_ just now. “Well, I don’t really keep any around the shop, usually. It didn’t even occur to me until it was time to add them, and there _weren’t_ any here.”

“Ye—ah—yeah, it’s—it’s a _shame_ , really,” Crowley said in the sort of open, ‘innocent’ tone that usually meant he was up to something. “ _Miracled_ food, just… it never really tastes as good.”

The thing about their dance that still thrilled Aziraphale was that they didn’t always quite know exactly where the other one was leading them, and yet they still effortlessly fell into the steps, just as he did now. “I know,” he said plaintively. “I thought it _might_ be alright. It’s not as if I miracled the whole cake! It was _just_ the cherries. But, I’m afraid…”

“Mm, sensitive palate like yours—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “I did eat the one slice, but—well, I sent the rest of it off with the burglars.”

“ _Of_ course you did,” Crowley said. “So look, I… my, uh—my—alcohol supply is, mm… lower than I’d like it to be. And if you’re— _missing ingredients_ , for any of your cakes, I mean… Well there’s no reason _both_ of us should have to go to the shops, yeah? I mean you’d have to _walk_ there, anyway, and I at least have the car. So. _I_ was thinking. If—y’know, if there’s anything that you’re out of—or, running low on, or _might_ run low on, just… tell me what it is, and I can stop by and—drop it off at the shop for you.” And then he very quietly mumbled something that _may_ have sounded a _little_ like, “And not leave.”

 _Oh!_ “What was that last bit, dear?”

“Nothing!” Crowley said quickly. “No, just, if—I could drop off whatever you need, and leave right away. Stay two meters apart the whole time. Nothing wrong with that, yeah? And then there’s one less person— _out and about_ , than there would’ve been. So if you think about it, it's the _socially responsible_ thing to do, innit?”

Crowley _always_ found a way to circle in closer.

“…Well,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose, when you put it _that_ way…”

“Although,” Crowley mused. “I s’pose, if you’ve got _so_ much cake you’re—foisting it off on burglars—yngh, I could—I could maybe try some. Or something.”

“Well you _could_ , certainly. I have plenty to spare,” Aziraphale said. “Since when are you so interested in _eating_?”

“I am _that_ _bored_ , angel. I—literally I’ll try anything at this point. ‘Sides, didn’t you say you made angel food cake?”

“Oh I did.”

“M’curious how a real _angel’s_ angel food cake compares to the _regular_ kind.”

Aziraphale felt himself flush a little. “Well I do hope it won’t disappoint.” Crowley _had_ always liked angel food cake. “I—It’s very kind of you to offer—”

“I’m not _kind_. I’m _bored_ ,” Crowley snapped.

“ _Oh_ yes of course. Very _bored_ demon,” Aziraphale said dryly. “But I thought you were going to _sleep_.” That last bit came out harsher than he’d meant it to. _Idiot. Why did you say that?_

“Ngh—I—I can do that after,” Crowley said, managing to sound fairly casual.

“But if you’ll be sleeping, then what do you need the alcohol for?” _Stop it. You’re sabotaging this! Just stop talking._ But he couldn’t quite help it. It had always seemed like the most essential part of the dance; finding the holes in the argument, thoroughly checking the defenses, making sure everything was ironclad. _Practicing_ , in case either of their sides dropped in to question them, because it was better to make their mistakes with each other than in front of Head Office.

“Yyh—ah—nnm, it’s—a _precaution_ , angel! Look, d’you want anything or not?”

The ultimatum. _Don’t ruin this_. “…Well, I… I suppose I could take a look, at least,” he said. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, I could—check over, what I have. See if anything could use—replenishing.”

“Call when you have a list,” Crowley said, sounding smugly satisfied, and the call disconnected.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Crowley was determined to _not_ make himself absolutely mad while he waited. He was _not_ going to drive himself out of his own mind second-guessing himself and his brilliant plan, he was _not_ going to worry about Aziraphale getting scared off, he was _not_ going to over-analyze every single word of both of the phone calls they’d had today, and he was _especially_ not going to stare at the clock and worry about how long Aziraphale would take to call him back.

That was going to take some very high-level distraction.

Fortunately, he had suddenly found himself in possession of an awful lot of flour, and that seemed like just the thing. He dumped some of it out on top of his desk and spread it around until he had a fairly even layer across most of the desktop, awkwardly skirting the phone. He started with just absently drawing little designs in it—a squiggle here, a zig-zag there, something that vaguely looked like his sigil… And if something that resembled a heart with the initials _AJC_ and _AZF_ inside it somehow wound up in the flour at some point, nobody needed to know about it.

The designs were alright at first, but… well why stop there? He started heaping the flour into little mounds, and one of the mounds ended up looking somewhat cube-like, and really, it was just a natural progression from there. Crowley expected the flour to behave a little bit like packing snow, and the flour was more than happy4 to comply.

He quickly lost himself in his new project, adding more flour as he went, and in what seemed like no time at all, he had the beginnings of his own little miniature flour _settlement_ of some kind. Maybe an old fort, or some ancient city, the way humans _used_ to make them. He had streets and little buildings and a few bigger buildings and a nice little plaza in the middle with convenient benches for hidden-in-plain-sight illicit rendezvous.

He was in the process of coaxing the flour into forming a little bridge, using his pinkie finger as a scaffold, when his desk phone finally rang.

He whipped his neck around to stare at it. Then he reached out to grab it on the second ri—whoops… so much for that bridge—he grabbed it on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“You _wily_ serpent,” Aziraphale scolded.

 _What’d I do this time?_ he thought, already smirking because he knew the answer. “Mm-hm?”

“You _know_ how it works. I only had as much as I _needed_ for all my recipes because I _expected_ to have enough! Now that you’ve made me actually _think_ about it…”

 _Yesss_. Crowley had suspected that was how Aziraphale had managed to own _any_ quantity of the necessary ingredients, let alone enough to make all the different kinds of cake he’d mentioned. Just to be safe, though, he had… helped things along, a little. He ran his eyes over his little city, made entirely of flour that had been surprised to find itself here5 instead of in Aziraphale’s cupboard. “Oops,” he said innocently, which made Aziraphale scoff. “I s’pose you’ll need a few things, then?”

“I have _quite_ a list. So I do hope you have a pen ready. And a _large_ piece of paper.”

He could miracle those up no problem. The hard part would be finding a relatively flour-free part of his desk to write on. “Yeah… gimme a minute…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The time it had taken for Aziraphale to determine his shopping list and relay it to Crowley meant that Crowley couldn’t make it to actually _buy_ the groceries until the next day. That was fine, though, because it meant Aziraphale had plenty of time to practice his lines. After all, it wasn’t fair if Crowley had to do _all_ the work to contrive for them to spend time together. 

Aziraphale was at the window to watch as Crowley swung the Bentley into his usual (illegal) spot and parked it there. And here he was, feeling _giddy_ again, which was absolutely ridiculous, but it _was_ exciting, and yet… _soothing_ , to see that familiar form getting out of the car, that red hair he knew so well, that signature saunter that probably could have been trademarked, and even those sunglasses…

There was an altogether _different_ cocktail of emotions attached to the sight of Crowley in blue latex gloves and a black mask.

Before the lockdown had begun, Aziraphale had _given_ Crowley a mask. Oh, he had played it off as nothing, of course; _I ordered some for myself, just in case, and they sent me an extra one, so I thought you might like to have a spare…_ Easy enough for both of them to brush it off, easy enough to pretend it didn’t matter that the mask was Aziraphale’s tartan. But. Well.

Crowley was wearing a black mask.

To be fair, it did suit him better. And at least he had chosen to wear a mask. _And_ gloves. And he was carrying four bags of cake ingredients, so Aziraphale hurried to open the door for him. “Crowley!”

“Hey angel.” Crowley didn’t even slow down as he came in and walked right past. “Back room fine?”

“Oh—yes, that’s—yes.” Aziraphale fretted with his hands a little as thoughts flittered through his head about whether to put on a mask and stay two meters apart. Then he realized the Bentley’s boot was still open, and still holding groceries. “Do you need help carrying?” he called towards the back room.

“Nah, s’fine,” Crowley said as he re-emerged. He was yet to even _look_ at Aziraphale—or at least, he hadn’t _pointed his sunglasses_ at Aziraphale yet. “Might wanna check I got the right stuff. Never heard of some of it.” And that was rubbish, but he had the sort of tone that either meant he’d been up to some mischief, or he wanted Aziraphale to _think_ he’d been up to some mischief.

As he passed on his way back outside, Aziraphale got a closer look and realized the mask wasn’t plain black; it was a print of a black snakeskin pattern. It was a nice personal touch, and Aziraphale felt inclined to admire it. It really did suit him. And surely, it was impossible to begrudge the Serpent of Eden choosing to wear a black snakeskin-print mask rather than a tartan one that didn’t even match his own color scheme. Better to forget about masks altogether and investigate whether or not the Serpent of Eden had played any tricks with the groceries.

Because Aziraphale’s plan would fall apart if Crowley had forgotten the cream of tartar.

He had only begun a preliminary search through the bags when Crowley returned with a case of wine, which he slid onto the table with everything else. Aziraphale eyed it. “That wasn’t on my list.”

Crowley went still and _finally_ looked at him. “Wasn’t?”

His voice was flat, and with the sunglasses and the mask on, the only trace of his actual facial expression was a hint of one eyebrow, just barely peeking over a dark lens. It was oddly unsettling.

“…No, it wasn’t,” Aziraphale said. He couldn’t remember the last time Crowley had made him feel _unsettled_.

Crowley stared back at him. “…Hnh,” he said. And then, rather airily, “Could’ve _sworn_ you wanted a case of red.” He slowly turned on his heel and sauntered away. “Should be the last trip,” he said on his way to the door.

And that meant Crowley had his own plan for how he would conveniently _not leave_ , now that he was here, at least not for a while, and if Aziraphale wanted to he could abandon his own plan for the same thing, and just let Crowley take care of it, but—

 _But_ —

With that slow pivot, he’d spotted a very telling little detail.

It _was_ the same mask Aziraphale had given him. Yes, most of it was now _miraculously_ a black snakeskin-print, but the parts that actually held the mask in place—those were still Aziraphale’s tartan. Crowley had taken it and made it his own, had put _himself_ into it, and now that mask had something of both of them in it, together, and Crowley was walking around with it tied across his face for all the world to see, and—

 _Oh, I can’t let him think he’s alone in wanting this. I mustn’t. I can’t. I shan’t._ Aziraphale set about searching through the bags in earnest for the cream of tartar.

“No, you _must’ve_ asked me for the case,” Crowley insisted as he returned, carrying several more bags. “I spent the whole night trying to think what kind of _cake_ recipe needed that much wine.”

Aziraphale couldn’t quite keep himself from beaming, although he directed it into the bags he was searching through. Crowley’s plan was plenty clear now; he was tempting the angel into the sort of argument that would inevitably lead to them drinking at least one bottle of this wine together. “Perhaps you confused _my_ list with _yours_ , my dear,” he said. Crowley made some noisy protest that pretended to use words, but didn’t actually, and Aziraphale interrupted it to set his _own_ plan in motion. “Speaking of _cake_ , though,” he said. “You mentioned that you wanted to try the angel food cake, and I _thought_ I still had some, but—I—I must’ve sent it off with the burglars.”

He said this with a dismissive wave of his hand, still keeping his face very carefully turned to inspect the contents of the bags on the table. He’d had a much smoother delivery for all this when he’d practiced it, hadn’t he?

“So I thought I would make a new one and have it ready for you, but I was out of—ah-ha!” He triumphantly held up the container he’d been searching for. “Cream of tartar,” he announced, holding it up for Crowley to see. And he clearly had the demon’s full attention. Crowley had gone still again, this time with both eyebrows well above his sunglasses. Aziraphale managed to give him an irritated look. “And I am _certain_ that I had more than a mere _four ounces_ of flour before _someone_ made me _think_ about it…”

A twitch of Crowley’s cheek gave away his smirk. He busied himself with putting the last few bags on the table. Aziraphale assumed this meant he _had_ intentionally made him think about what ingredients he _actually_ owned.

With a deep breath, and a much gentler tone of voice, Aziraphale very carefully finished reciting the lines he’d spent much of the previous night rehearsing. “But since I _do_ have all of the ingredients now, I _could_ still make an angel food cake for you to try,” he said, twisting his hands together, half-wondering why his heart was pounding. “If—if you’d like. If you don’t mind—waiting, here. A bit.”

There was a twitch of eyebrows the moment Crowley realized the ploy. And then he _grinned_ , his rarest, biggest grin. And he probably thought, with his mask and his sunglasses, that no one could tell he was grinning, but the pull of his cheeks was all Aziraphale needed to know that it was there, and that it _stayed_ there. Crowley shrugged. “Might as well,” he said nonchalantly. “Not like I have any pressing engagements to rush off to.”

Aziraphale beamed. He dragged his eyes down to the table full of groceries he needed to sort through and put away, only to find himself immediately looking at the demon again.

Crowley held up his gloved hands. “Alright if I take these off, then?”

“Oh—well, it’s just _us_ , in here. _We_ can’t get sick,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “You might as well get comfortable. It will take time for me to get everything measured and mixed, and of course it will need to bake, and then it will need to cool…”

Crowley carefully folded down the edge of one glove. Then he used the hand with the partially-folded down glove to remove the other glove and hold onto it. With his bare fingers, he took the folded-down part of the first glove and used that to pull the whole thing off, inside-out, with the other glove tucked inside of it. Aziraphale kindly held out a wastebasket, and Crowley dropped the gloves in. “ _Proper_ way to get gloves off without getting your hands dirty,” he said to Aziraphale’s questioning look, and he slipped past the angel to wash his hands in the sink.

Aziraphale pursed his lips as he put the wastebasket down and began taking all the groceries out of the bags. “Do I _want_ to know where you learned that?” he asked warily.

“Hair salon,” Crowley said as he scrubbed his hands. “Used to work at ‘em sometimes for temptations. They’re almost as good for it as the public baths used to be. They’re all dedicated to vanity and envy, and all run on gossip.” He turned the water off and looked over his shoulder at Aziraphale as he dried his hands. “Humans put some _nasty_ chemicals in their hair.” The angel hummed his acknowledgement.

Crowley did his best to school his features before he took the mask off, but it wasn’t easy. It _really_ wasn’t easy, seeing how Aziraphale was smiling fondly with his eyes locked on the mask as Crowley took it off and shoved it in his jacket pocket, staring until the mask was _completely_ out of sight and then flicking his eyes up to Crowley’s face. Apparently, his little modification had gone over well.

Crowley cleared his throat and gestured to the table full of groceries that Aziraphale didn’t seem to be making any progress with. “Need help putting away?”

“Oh! Ah—yes, that—that would be ki—ah, that is— _helpful_. Of you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and slid around Aziraphale to start putting things away. And if he used “putting things away” as the excuse of the day to circle the angel, to steal a hundred sidelong looks to watch him fuss and gather and measure his cake ingredients… well, neither of them said anything about it. They never did, either. They also did not comment on the fact that Crowley somehow knew where everything went. He just hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t notice the frigid stare he gave the icebox6 every time he put away something that needed to be kept cold.

“I’m not taking that to my place,” he said, waving a hand at the case of wine that was starting to look very out-of-place on a table that was filling up with mixing bowls and measuring things as quickly as it was being emptied of groceries. Just because _Aziraphale_ had a plan to keep him here didn’t mean _his_ plan had to be abandoned. “Don’t have room for it.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You most certainly _do_ have room for it, Crowley.”

“You _asked_ me for a case of red.” He hadn’t, and they both knew it. It was just a ploy, just a game piece, just a part of their usual dance.

Except, in their _usual_ dance, Aziraphale would have been rolling his eyes and lifting his chin and all holier-than-thou about it, with just the barest hint in his eyes that he was only waiting for Crowley to persuade him. He would _not_ have been glowing, barely restraining a grin, utterly relaxed and satisfied as he studied his cookbook, like he was right now. “ _You’re_ the one who wanted to buy alcohol,” he said primly, his voice barely half as cool as it would have been this time a year ago. He slid his eyes over to look at Crowley again.

It was all making it very hard for Crowley to keep playing his part. He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Nhh—yeah— _alcohol._ As in _hard_ alcohol. Not _that_ stuff. Because if I wake up before July, I will want to be drunk as quickly as possible, and _that_ won’t do it.”

Aziraphale gave a non-committal hum. “Still closer to _wine_ than anything _I_ asked for.”

“Just because you don’t _remember_ asking for it, doesn’t mean you _didn’t_!”

“Do you still have the list?”

“What?”

Aziraphale gave him a level look, with the gleam of victory in his eyes. “Surely you made a _list_ of all the things I asked you for,” he said calmly, when he should have been indignant by now. “Do you still have it?”

He did. ‘Case of red wine’ was not an item on that list. “….ihhn—nyyngh…”

“I do still have the list that _I_ made, to read off to you, of course.”

 _I love you, you bastard_. Crowley was so well-practiced at _not_ saying it that it didn’t occur to him that he _could have_ , now. Although it would have been an odd time to confess his feelings. He was busy marveling at the angel, anyway. Once in a while, one or the other of them would suddenly, briefly, seem completely adjusted to this new world where they didn’t have to pretend to be enemies, where the banter really _was_ just for fun. Apparently, it was Aziraphale’s turn. Aziraphale’s triumphant little hint of a smile was warm and playful, as if he’d forgotten that he was supposed to be haughty.

In the face of all that, Crowley could only scowl. “I’m still not taking it,” he said, pointing at the case of wine again. “Better hope it pairs well with cake.”

“With all the recipes I have here, I’m sure we can find _something_ that it pairs with,” Aziraphale said.

 _We_.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t be thrown out any time soon, Crowley settled in to watch his angel bake.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Several hours later, they were both in their customary spots; Aziraphale sitting in his chair, and Crowley sprawled out on the couch. They had each had a slice of angel food cake, and Crowley had hummed that it was “very good.” Aziraphale knew perfectly well that this was the highest praise Crowley ever gave for food, and he was delighted by it. They had also opened a bottle of wine from the case Crowley had bought, and found that it paired surprisingly7 well with angel food cake.

They had reached a natural lull in the conversation, and now Crowley was staring at his empty wine glass. “I will have to check on the plants, at some point,” he said with very deliberate casualness.

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He had thought—well, he had _hoped_ —that Crowley would at least _intend_ to stay… longer. Hunker down, as he’d put it on the telephone. Had he misread it all? But he looked up, and Crowley had made no move to actually _leave_ , yet. His sunglasses were on, but he’d never taken them off today, so that wasn’t much of an indication. He was very still, just staring at the empty glass in his hand, waiting for Aziraphale to make the next move. He was _offering_ to leave, then. Letting Aziraphale decide. 

“…Oh yes, of course,” Aziraphale said mildly, and he stood up. He did not miss the faint frown on the demon’s face at that, and so he wasted no time in picking up the bottle and pouring into Crowley’s empty glass. “Whatever you think best, my dear.” _Not yet. Don’t leave yet. You have to at least finish this glass, now. No need to rush._ He refilled his own glass, too.

Crowley tilted his head back to gaze up at the angel. A casual observer who didn’t know him might not have even realized that he was smiling, but Aziraphale was no casual observer and knew him better than anyone. He saw the smile, and those sunglasses couldn’t hide how soft that expression was. Crowley raised his glass. “Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together, and Aziraphale returned to his seat.

It was no guarantee that they would, in fact, _hunker down_ together for the duration of the lockdown. They had never been in each other’s company for such a long duration as that before. Even when they had worked for the Dowlings, they’d spent more time apart than they had with each other. The bookshop did have more rooms upstairs, but it was only so large. It was entirely possible that they would, eventually, need more of a respite from each other than a cozy bookshop could provide. And if they _did_ need some time apart, or if they found that cohabitation was not for them, then Crowley’s plants had already been established as an excuse.

But not yet. Not now. Now, there was good cake, and good wine, and excellent company. There was no reason to leave.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Crowley had been at the shop for more than twenty-four hours. That wasn’t a record8, but it was close enough to one that it felt monumental. Something to savor. He found himself doing so while staring at the little pile of tartan face masks Aziraphale had near the door, ready at hand on the off-chance he actually needed to leave his home, or just if he had more burglars drop in.

Crowley’s hand was in his jacket pocket, where he could discreetly rub his fingers against his own mask. He hadn’t been sure how Aziraphale would react to him changing the pattern, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wear that much tartan in public any more than Aziraphale could have made himself go out in a pair of skinny jeans. Or any jeans, for that matter. Of course, he could have just miracled up a _new_ mask, but… well, he hadn’t.

And then, Aziraphale had seemed to _like_ what he’d done to the mask. And that had him wondering…

With a glance over his shoulder to confirm that Aziraphale was still in the back room, Crowley stepped forward and touched one of the tartan masks. On a whim, he gently ran his thumb over the ear straps—the part of _his_ mask that he had left tartan—and they turned to the same black snakeskin print he’d put on his own mask.

Now this mask was an exact inverse of his.

He wondered if Aziraphale had noticed—or if he _knew_ … he probably didn’t know. Every kind of snake had its own specific scale pattern, and _this_ scale pattern was… well, it was _his_. Crowley generally avoided taking his snake form, if he could help it. In the six millennia they’d known each other, he could count on one hand the number of times Aziraphale had seen his snake form, and all of them had been brief. It wasn’t likely that Aziraphale would be able to recognize his scale pattern, even if he _did_ know about scale patterns as a form of identification.

But Crowley knew. It was impossible _not_ to know his own skin.

“Crowley?”

He shoved the altered mask to the bottom of the pile and whipped around to see that Aziraphale had emerged from behind the nearest bookcase and was now giving him a curious look. “What?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked over to the masks, and then back at Crowley.

 _Oops_.

But Aziraphale apparently chose not to acknowledge whatever he had or had not noticed. Instead, he folded his hands in front of himself. “I was wondering if you might like a game of chess. Or perhaps backgammon.”

Crowley feigned a scowl. “I’m not playing chess. You always cheat at chess.”

“I most certainly do not,” Aziraphale said primly. “ _You’re_ the one who insists on playing black every time.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “…You know that _no one_ plays backgammon anymore.”

Aziraphale pouted. “…Well, _we_ still do.”

“Really.” Crowley raised one eyebrow. “When was the last time?”

Aziraphale thought about it. Then he lit up. “We taught Warlock!” he said brightly. “He quite liked it, actually. We played it all the time, that week you—ah—when _Nanny_ was…in Glasgow.”

He let out a groan. That was the excuse they’d given the Dowlings. “ _Shedding_ , Aziraphale. You’re _allowed_ to say that I was _shedding_.”

“Well, you get a bit sensitive about it, sometimes,” Aziraphale said defensively.

“Only _when_ I’m shedding!”

Aziraphale politely raised his eyebrows.

…Alright, he did have a point. Crowley sighed. “Backgammon it is, then.”

Aziraphale beamed. Then he turned his calculating gaze on the little pile of masks next to Crowley. He obviously knew _something_ was up… “I’ll go get the set, shall I?” he said, pointedly mild as he looked at Crowley again. What he _wasn’t_ saying was something like, _I know you did something, and I know you won’t let me look right now, so I’ll peek later when your guard is down_.

Crowley shrugged, like that unspoken message wasn’t there. “Sure. If y’want.”

So the angel went to fetch one of his backgammon sets—probably the one from the 1600s, although he also had a set from ancient Rome. He _had_ at least learned to call it ‘backgammon’ now. He’d called it ‘tables’ for at least a century longer than anyone else on the planet.

Crowley glanced at the masks he hadn’t had permission to meddle with. They _had_ been in a tidy little stack, before he’d interfered. Aziraphale had already seen them in the messy pile they were now. If he straightened them, would that make it _more_ obvious, or hide the evidence? Better to leave them neat. He even folded the bottom mask, hiding his snakeskin-print ear straps so they wouldn’t be so easily spotted. Only delaying the inevitable, really.

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and rubbed his fingers against his own mask. Which was silly. He only liked to do that because the mask was from Aziraphale, and there was no need to cling to something _from_ Aziraphale when he was actually _with_ Aziraphale. The angel hadn’t worn his _own_ coat at all, the whole time Crowley had been here. Just his waistcoat, and occasionally an apron, which was surprisingly _not_ tartan. His beloved coat was hanging up on the coat rack.

“Crowley?”

“Be right there!”

Crowley pulled his jacket off and hung it up next to Aziraphale’s. It looked nice like that.

After seven rounds of backgammon, a glass of wine, and the usual argument about checkers9, Crowley did inevitably let his guard down, and allow both Aziraphale and the masks to be out of his line of sight. He only realized he’d done it when Aziraphale returned, looking unbearably _fond_ and _affectionate_ but, thankfully, not saying anything about it.

The next time Crowley looked at the pile of masks, the one he had altered was on top.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aziraphale sat in his desk chair with his back to his desk. Without quite realizing it, he started wringing his hands.

This was Crowley’s third day here, now. Crowley had _never_ stayed so long in the bookshop before, not without _some_ sort of break—a walk in the park, or an errand for something to eat, or _something_. They had already played more rounds of backgammon than Aziraphale cared to count. He had even conceded to playing a few games of checkers. Crowley insisted that he didn’t feel like _thinking_ enough to play chess, which was… troubling. And then he had insisted that Aziraphale did not need to _entertain him_ any more than he usually would, and that he ought to be reading or baking or whatever else he would be doing on his own.

So. Aziraphale had made tea.

It was on the desk behind him, and it had since gone cold.

He really hadn’t been _miserable_ , being on his own for the lockdown, but he was fairly certain that Crowley _had_ been. Isolation did not suit this demon, least of all with nothing for him to do but stare at his plants or watch the grim news on the television. It was to be expected that Crowley would be unusually _irritable_ after a long stretch of that, and it wasn’t as though he had so much _more_ to do here than at his own flat. It all had to come out sooner or later.

Aziraphale had rather been hoping for ‘later’ and ‘in smaller doses.’

Instead, Crowley was now prowling among the bookcases, snapping now and then about how he couldn’t _find_ anything because Aziraphale had _rearranged_ things, even though Aziraphale hadn’t reorganized at all since about a month before the lockdown began. Crowley seemed to think otherwise. “It’s very rude!” he called out, as if it was completely unheard of for Aziraphale to rearrange his books. “Not very angelic of you!”

Aziraphale sighed. “Whatever you are looking for, Crowley, I would be happy to direct you to it,” he said, straining for a bit more patience.

“I don’t _want_ you to _direct me to it_ ,” he said mockingly.

“Oh, _honestly_.” Aziraphale stood up and straightened his waistcoat. “I don’t know what you’re trying to find, anyway. I _thought_ you said you didn’t _read_.”

“I _don’t_ read—Where the _Heaven_ did you put the Jeffery Archer books?”

“Oh, I thought you _didn’t_ want me to _direct_ you.”

He moved to where he could see Crowley stalking back and forth between the bookcases, scowling and sneering at everything. Aziraphale had _really_ hoped that they would last longer than _this_ , but he could hardly expect Crowley to stay here when he seemed _so_ unhappy. It seemed inevitable that he would leave, and probably soon. He at least was _not_ irritated enough to lose his usual control over his eyes. Aziraphale could tell that from here, because at the moment Crowley’s sunglasses were on the coffee table near the couch. He had taken them off a few times, but always put them back on again after a few hours at most, because, like they’d said that morning, “I’ve worn them for two thousand _years_ , angel. I feel _naked_ without ‘em.”

“One thousand, nine hundred eighty- _six_ years, at _most_. You didn’t have them at Golgotha.”

Perhaps Aziraphale was getting a bit irritable, too.

Now Crowley shoved his hands into his hair and gripped it tight, like he was trying to either pull the hair out or hold his brain _in_. “It’s not about _finding_ anything!” he snarled at the nearest book. “It’s just—I usually _know_ where things _are_ here!”

Aziraphale blinked, and a few things very suddenly clicked into place in his mind.

Crowley did not have his sunglasses or his jacket, so he wasn’t going to leave right this instant. He was not making any move to _get_ his sunglasses or his jacket, which meant he didn’t _intend_ to leave, either. He wanted to _know where things were_ , because he usually _did_ , because he spent so much time here and felt comfortable here and he was _trying_ to get comfortable _now_. And yes, he _was_ in a bit of an ugly mood just now, but he wasn’t trying to _hide_ it. He wasn’t even hiding _himself_ , behind his sunglasses or under a blanket or off in his flat or—no, he was prowling around the shop, but not _hiding_. Not from Aziraphale. He was _trusting_ Aziraphale with this part of himself. And staying.

And maybe it was strange for Aziraphale to find that all terribly wonderful and touching and heartwarming and, dare he say, even _sweet_. Maybe none of those things were _supposed_ to make someone feel loved and cherished. Maybe seeing Crowley so restless and agitated _shouldn’t_ have evoked feelings of fondness and adoration and—and everything else.

But. Well.

Aziraphale found himself gazing affectionately at Crowley, with a small but very warm smile on his face.

And that was the expression he was wearing when Crowley turned and faced him and made eye contact and—

Aziraphale caught his breath and quickly schooled his expression, but it was too late. Crowley had gone _completely_ still, not even breathing. He very slowly blinked, and then his entire demeanor shifted from _agitated_ and _frustrated_ and _irritated_ to wholly, completely, _baffled_. Quite understandably so. Aziraphale looked away and busied himself with straightening his waistcoat and his cuffs and his bowtie, but he couldn’t help but make frequent glances at Crowley, and so he saw as the demon continued to stare at him and slowly tilt his head to one side.

They stood like that, just watching each other from opposite sides of the shop, for what seemed to Aziraphale like a _very_ long time but was probably only a very awkward minute.

Crowley scratched his head. Slowly, like he was wary of spooking a cornered animal, he crept across the bookshop, carefully making his way closer, all the while looking very perplexed. Aziraphale backed up towards his desk chair as Crowley came around the counter, but Crowley gave him as wide a berth as he could and slid himself onto the couch. He fairly curled up at the far end, with his elbow draped against the back of the couch and his hand holding his head up, apparently settling in to try to make sense of a world in which Aziraphale looked at him like _that_ when he was being… well, not very likeable, by most standards.

Aziraphale very stiffly sat in his chair. Crowley was still staring at him. His eyes hadn’t wavered at all.

So. This would be a very strange conversation, which they would have to have. At some point.

Perhaps in another century or so.

Finally, Crowley closed his eyes and shook his head like he was trying to clear it, and then rubbed his forehead to help things along. When he opened his eyes again, he immediately looked at Aziraphale. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it, and looked away from Aziraphale, scratching his head. Then, seeming to make up his mind, he drew in a breath and faced Aziraphale again, looking… a bit lost. “Will you read to me, angel?”

The relief from the apparent reprieve sank in slowly. “…Oh,” Aziraphale said, and then he brightened. “Oh, of—of course, my dear,” he said. He raised his eyebrows. “Any—particular—requests?”

Crowley shrugged and shook his head. “Just… something?”

“…Ah.” Aziraphale drummed his fingers on his knee. An idea struck. “I think I have _just_ the thing,” he said, and he stood up. “Give me just a moment to find it.”

Crowley nodded vaguely in acknowledgement. Then, when Aziraphale had walked past, in some reference to what he’d been complaining about, he called a half-hearted “Good luck!”

Aziraphale did not _need_ luck, of course. He returned a moment or two later with a book in his hand. In his absence, Crowley had slithered over to the left side of the couch, but he was not in his customary sprawl. He was more curled up than usual, and he had left the whole right side of the couch completely vacant. He looked up at the angel with something akin to puppy dog eyes, which were on full display, as his sunglasses were still on the table.

Aziraphale obligingly seated himself on the right side of the couch. This was really their _usual_ way of sitting on any and every bench they ever saw, but it was unusual—although not entirely unprecedented—for both of them to be on this couch at the same time. Aziraphale brushed past any unnecessary _newness_ of it by presenting the book. “Will this do?”

It was a gray book, with red hearts on the cover, and gold lettering that read _CASINO ROYALE, by IAN FLEMING_.

Crowley smirked faintly and cocked an eyebrow. “You still have that?”

Aziraphale gave him an indignant scowl. “ _Obviously_ , I still have it!” he said. “It was a gift from someone _very_ dear to me. It’s a first edition, _and_ , he _even_ got the author to _sign_ it for me!” Then he smugly lifted his chin. “ _Actually_ , he got the author to sign a first edition of _all_ of his books for me. I have a _complete set_.” He ended with a proud little wiggle. This was all a very long way of saying, _It was from YOU, you idiot! Of COURSE I kept it!_

Crowley seemed amused by all of this. “Ever read any of ‘em?” he asked. There was a bit of a challenge under that ever-so-casual tone.

Aziraphale only deflated very slightly. “…Once. Each,” he said. He furrowed his brow a little. “I—seem to recall that he—” He lifted the book again to indicate _the author_. “—gets a bit… long-winded, about… some details.”

“Mmm.” Crowley settled himself a little deeper into the couch. “S’what made him good at his job, in the war. All his attention to those little _details_.” He set his head against the back of the couch. “The way he goes _on_ , though. Never did tell him, but for _spy_ novels, some parts are _surprisingly_ good for insomnia.”

All that from a demon who ‘didn’t read.’

Aziraphale beamed at him. Then he ever so delicately put his reading glasses on and opened the book, carefully turning the pages until he found the first chapter. He took a breath, but paused before he began reading. He turned his head just enough to slide his eyes over to Crowley. Shyly, hesitantly, he lifted his left arm. A silent offer.

Crowley’s eyebrows went up, and his eyes lit with hope. And then, quick as the snake he was, he shot forward and slid himself under that arm, tucking his cheek against the angel’s shoulder.

As one, they let out a deep sigh. Aziraphale let his arm settle, with a warm hand embracing Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley’s arms slithered until they were snugly wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle. For a moment, they just breathed, just savoring this. It was only the third time they had allowed themselves to—well—to _cuddle_. The first time had been the night after the Apocalypse, in Crowley’s flat, when they had both been too exhausted and wrung out to really appreciate it, and the second had been around Christmas with a flimsy excuse about cold weather.

When he felt a bit more settled, Aziraphale turned his attention to the open book in his lap. He could still feel an awful lot of tension in Crowley’s body, but given the way he’d been carrying on before, that was hardly surprising. Aziraphale cleared his throat and began to read.

He hadn’t gotten very far when he sighed. “See, this is exactly what I mean,” he said. “What do we care about an imaginary committee meeting? Even the people he’s _imagining_ sound bored. If _this_ is how he keeps his mind _sharp_ , I would hate to see it _dull_.”

Crowley had too much on his mind to properly enjoy Aziraphale being judgmental. “Istoleyourflour.”

Aziraphale blinked twice. Then he turned to look at the top of Crowley’s head. “…Pardon?”

Crowley kept his head tucked down so that his face was hidden. “…Your flour?” he said meekly. “It, I… you _did_ have, more than—however many ounces. I, um.” He lifted a hand and mimed a snap. “I—stole it. It’s at my flat.”

Aziraphale blinked again.

Then he threw his head back and laughed.

The tension finally melted out of Crowley’s muscles. He twisted his head around to look at Aziraphale. “Wanna see what I did with it?” he said, and he slipped free just enough to grab his mobile from the table and settle right back in. “I took pictures!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said. He peered at the image Crowley pulled up on the screen. “…Oh my.”

“See, it’s a whole city!” Crowley said, and he started scrolling through pictures. “I had _that_ much when you called with your list. And then the shops were still closed, so I kept going ‘til they opened. See here’s all these buildings and houses and stuff, and streets, and I put a wall around it, like the humans used to. ‘Cept then it kept going _past_ the walls, _also_ like humans used to. That bridge was really tricky…”

Aziraphale stared at all these images with a very furrowed brow. “How… How did you get the flour to—to _stay_ in those—shapes?”

“I just put it like that,” Crowley said. “And see, there’s a plaza in the middle, with benches and everything. That lump there’s meant to be a fountain, but—ngh, didn’t really turn out right. So it’s probably post-modern art or something, and the locals hate it.”

Crowley continued giving his little photo-tour of his flour city, completely oblivious as Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something—twice—only to close it again without making a sound. He ultimately decided _not_ to ruin anything by pointing out that flour did not actually _work_ that way. “It looks very impressive,” he said, when Crowley seemed to be done.

Crowley twisted around in a way that probably any other human-shaped-being could not possibly replicate, and he sheepishly peered up at the angel. “You’re not angry?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Actually, I… I should also confess something,” he admitted. “I _did_ actually have more angel food cake. I just, ah…” He mimed a snap of his own. “Sent it off to the staff at the nearest hospital. And, I—before I checked any other supplies, I _may_ have… sort of—emptied, my cream of tartar. A bit. Into a wastebasket.”

Crowley picked his head up at that. “A _zir_ aphale!” he said, not entirely _pretending_ to be scandalized by the news. “ _You_ , wasted a form of _food_?”

“I did not _waste_ food,” Aziraphale said, wincing. “I… _sacrificed_ it.” He lifted his chin. “For the greater good.”

Crowley’s eyebrows started climbing up his forehead. “Greater good,” he repeated.

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale let his thumb rub against the demon’s shoulder. “These are _trying_ times, my dear Crowley. The last thing _anyone_ needs is a _demon_ out—prowling loose about London.”

Crowley’s eyebrows had made it far higher than they had any right to. He was smirking fondly. “ _I_ suppose you _do_ have a point,” he teased, and Aziraphale nodded primly. “You had better keep an eye on me, then.”

“Oh, I _quite_ intend to.” Aziraphale gave him a gentle squeeze, nudging him to settle down again.

Crowley was more than happy to snuggle in with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He allowed his eyes to close, and let out a deeply satisfied sigh. Aziraphale lightly stroked his arm as he resumed reading, right where they had left off.

[1] He _loved_ to be snobbish.

[2] There is some strange flavor of irony about this…

[3] Of course, if Aziraphale had _thought_ about it, he would have realized that it had been quite a few decades since anyone had come around to deliver the ice for the icebox, that the ice in his icebox should have melted long ago, and that there was no reason at all for his food to keep from spoiling. Needless to say, Aziraphale did not think about it, and therefore his icebox worked perfectly.

[4] Flour doesn’t care what it’s used to make, as long as it is used to make _something_. It really doesn’t make a difference if the “something” is a cake, or bread, or paper mâché, as long as it is _something_. This is a very low standard, when you consider that “something” could also include “a mess,” but it _works_ for flour, so who are we to judge?

[5] Again, the flour was perfectly fine with this development. Like any inanimate object that spends enough time in Aziraphale’s bookshop, the flour was all in favor of Crowley coming over, and it was pleased to have a role to play in any ploy with that laudable end goal.

[6] Remember when I said Aziraphale’s icebox worked because he expected it to? I lied. Crowley realized that was happening ages ago, and of course the fact that _he_ was thinking about it almost ruined everything, and he figured that out, too. He promptly miracled the icebox to do exactly what it had been doing anyway, and he’s been keeping it in line with cold stares every time he’s in the bookshop ever since. The icebox has no qualms about letting Crowley think it would misbehave without his regular interventions. One more reason for the demon to visit, after all.

[7] That is to say, they both _pretended_ to be surprised. Neither of them were at all surprised, because Crowley prided himself on his talent for pairing wine and food, and they had specifically discussed angel food cake.

[8] Prior to Armageddon, Crowley had only very rarely spent more than twelve hours at a time in the bookshop, and had certainly never spent a full twenty-four hours there. Shortly after Armageddon, he had set his all-time record of thirty-six hours and fourteen minutes. He had reached the twenty-four hour mark about half a dozen times since then, but usually only because he fell asleep for a while, and he didn’t dare exceed that mark by very much.

[9] “Why don’t we ever play checkers anymore?”

“Because _you_ always cheat at checkers.”

“I do not!”

“Oh, _really_.”

“I—once! _One time_ , angel, and it was all your fault!”

“How was it _my_ fault?”

“ _You’re_ the one who insisted we _play checkers_ to pick who got to bless the—the—moon people! What’d you _think_ I would do?”

“… _Astronauts_ , Crowley. They are called _astronauts_. The _Apollo 11_ astronauts, specifically. You _did_ the blessing. You should at _least_ know what they’re _called_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to GayDemonicDisaster for Brit-picking! 
> 
> Also... that bit at the end, with _Casino Royale_? Yeah... kind of led me down something of a rabbit hole and now you will NEVER convince me that Crowley did not know Ian Fleming and unwittingly inspire James Bond. Yes, there WILL be a fic about it. I just have massive amounts of research to do first, because that's how I work.


End file.
